


Nothing Better or More Delightful

by Brigdh



Series: Nothing Better or More Delightful [1]
Category: Benjamin January Mysteries - Barbara Hambly
Genre: Community: polybigbang, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Pining, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/pseuds/Brigdh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben and Rose have rescued Hannibal from unjust accusations and an untimely death, but they're not sure what to do next. The trip back from Mexico is a chance to figure out where everyone belongs.   </p><p>(Set in the aftermath of <i>Days of the Dead</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Better or More Delightful

  


January knocked a second time on the door and waited; he’d almost given up and stepped away when he heard Hannibal’s faint “ _Ine_.”

Inside the inn room, which was small and looked too much like every other inn room between Mexico City and Vera Cruz, Hannibal was slumped in a chair, head lolled against its back; if January hadn’t just heard him speak, he would have assumed he was asleep. He was still wearing the dress that would be a necessary disguise until they’d escaped the country, though he’d discarded the veils and gloves that made it believable. Without them, he was too obviously a man, particularly now in the evening, when his chin was lightly shaded with stubble. He was by no means ugly, but neither was his face one that could be taken for a woman’s, even with yards of black silk to support the illusion.

The dress hadn’t made him feminine, but it did make him look like a stranger; January was familiar with how color and line could change a person’s form, but was still startled by the extent of the transformation. The full skirt with its padding of petticoats hid his legs, the tight sleeves exaggerated the boniness of his arms, and against the glossy black silk his skin was colorless as wax. He looked brittle, breakable, and January didn’t like it. Though maybe it was only his face after all, tilted up slightly as though in expectation of a kiss, eyes closed, hair straggling loose across one cheek. It had seemed easier to smuggle him away from the accusation of murder than stay and try to prove his innocence in court, but January suspected that it was hard on Hannibal. Not only was he leaving people he’d lived among for months, but almost everyone he’d met remained convinced by the false charges. That so many had believed him a murderer weighed on him. 

“Where’s Consuela?” January asked, looking away and around the bare room, which held nothing more than the chair, a bed, and a small table with a water pitcher. 

It again took Hannibal some time to answer, and when he did it was nothing January didn’t already know. “She’s leaving.” 

January suppressed a sigh. Hannibal had obviously drugged himself nearly unconscious on opium; it was in his softly slurred words, the emergence of his Irish accent, the languid lines of his body. He didn’t need to see Hannibal’s eyes to know the pupils would be mere pinpricks. January supposed he couldn’t blame his friend; he’d found riding in a carriage over these roads painful enough, and he hadn’t been traveling with a broken bone. “How’s your leg?”

Hannibal smiled slightly, not opening his eyes. “ _Can honor set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound?_ ” 

A less than helpful answer. January knelt beside his chair and lifted his skirts to check the splint. There was no impropriety in a doctor examining a patient, of course, but January hadn’t often had a patient who was also a former lover. He was very aware of a time when he might have pressed his mouth to the same spot on Hannibal’s bare leg where his hand now rested, of exactly how soft the skin would be, of how Hannibal’s voice could turn husky with pleasure. He shoved away the thought. That was over, and had been for quite a while. Ever since Rose had begun to accept his overtures of romance, he had been faithful to her; he’d formalized that rule with his vows at the altar. And Hannibal had understood his commitment, had never reproached him for ending what had been between them. Hannibal was still his friend, and that was the more important part. If January had further desires, it was only to be expected, but he loved Rose too truly, too deeply, to betray her.

Hannibal, apparently free from similar thoughts, continued to soliloquize over his head– _Honor hath no skill in surgery, then?_ – and January let the flow of well-known words, made musical by Hannibal’s accent, steady his mind. He focused on the medical problem in front of him. The bruises covering Hannibal’s leg made it easier, though they had faded somewhat, mottled green and yellow rather than the deep purple of a week ago. The bandages seemed tight enough, and nothing was obviously pulled out of alignment by the jostling of travel. Nonetheless, he ran his hands over the break to check that the bone was still properly set, and Hannibal cut off mid-line. January glanced up at him, and saw the evidence of pain in the tightness of his mouth, though he held himself still for January to finish his examination. 

January dropped Hannibal’s skirts back into place, self-consciously acting out a pretense of modesty, though for whose benefit he wasn’t sure. He stood and, not knowing what else to say, continued Falstaff’s speech: “ _Doth he feel it?_ ” 

“ _‘Tis insensible. Yea, to the dead,_ ” Hannibal answered, though he spoke the words with a subtle mockery.

January looked down at him. Hannibal’s collarbones and wrist bones, revealed by the cut of his dress, were too prominent, jutting out from beneath stretched-thin skin; the lines in his face were etched deeply enough from pain and weariness that even the laudanum hadn’t softened them. He hadn’t come down to dinner, which January had hoped was only to keep the inn’s servants and their own police escort from noticing him. But from the look of him, January wasn’t sure he’d eaten all day. Hannibal had come so close to dying. Sometimes January just wanted to touch him, to make sure that he was real and not some dream of hope or denial. 

Once he had spent so much time with Hannibal that he had ceased to be quite conscious of him, simply taking for granted the sound of his schooled French and laughter and extraordinary music; the sight of his sly grin or the elegant angle of his long fingers; and most of all how he had felt, the casual brush of his shoulder against January’s when he would sit beside him, the shape of his arm when January grasped it to steady him, the heat and fineness of his skin against January’s palms. And then he had left, and the absence of all those things was like a hole in January’s life. Sometimes January had forgotten he was gone, and had caught himself looking for Hannibal on a crowded street, or thinking he should invite him to dinner; once he had woken in the middle of the night, certain that he had heard Hannibal calling him– as he had occasionally– drunk and come to beg a place to sleep or a loan or simply company. But of course there had been no one there. January had always grumbled and complained, even as he let Hannibal in, but this night, with no one there to disturb his rest, he had missed him so fiercely that it had been a physical pain, as though he had taken a blow to the chest.

It had been almost a relief to rush to Mexico, though his reason for doing so was less than desirable. But at least he had finally been doing something, had some possibility of reclaiming Hannibal and filling that empty space. January supposed some part of him would always fear loss, forever aware of how easily, how permanently people could be taken away. But this time, for once, he had won; Hannibal hadn’t died, and soon they would all be back home in New Orleans. 

“Go to bed, Hannibal,” January said finally. 

“Can’t. I tried lying down, and it felt like the corset was stabbing me.” He pressed a hand to his waist. “And I can’t manage to unlace myself. I don’t know how women do this every day.”

“Come on, then.” January gave him a hand to his feet, catching his elbow when Hannibal swayed. The point of the bone was sharp in his hand. He sat Hannibal on the bed, facing away, and unbuttoned the dress. Hannibal was silent as he did, head hanging forward and hair falling to either side of the nape of his neck. 

January untied the bow at the top of the corset and began to draw the laces out; he’d grown used to doing this for Rose recently. She had a trick of tying the laces so that she was perfectly capable of removing a corset on her own, but January liked to help her, found it both domestic and sensual. He liked the silkiness of the ribbon, warm with a day’s worth of body heat, contrasted to the stiff frame of the corset; he liked the slow reveal of skin and the ridges of the spine. 

The corset Hannibal was wearing was Rose’s, in fact. She and Hannibal were nearly the same height, and shared the same slim build, though Hannibal was thinner enough that whoever had laced him up that morning hadn’t pulled the corset as tight as they might have. It lay close against his skin, but no more than that, forming no falsely slender waist; his dress wasn’t fashionable enough to require it. Even so, he sighed as the corset loosened, and when January pulled it off, there were red lines in his flesh where it had pressed. January smoothed his thumb over one without thinking. Hannibal, always so sensitive to touch, shivered. January’s hand stilled, and he sat motionless. He could feel the ribs just beneath the skin, and somewhere deeper, Hannibal’s heartbeat. 

Hannibal pulled away and turned to look at him, eyes very black and clearer than January had expected. “Rose is waiting for you,” he said.

“I know.” January took a breath to say something more, but let it out wordlessly instead. He clasped Hannibal on the shoulder. “Sleep well.”

Hannibal smiled and nodded, but when January closed the door behind him, he was still sitting upright on the bed, his skirts a spill of black against the brightly colored blanket.

The thing about being on a ship, Rose had discovered, was that there simply wasn’t much to do. She hadn’t been able to pack nearly as many books as she would have liked, a necessary sacrifice in the name of having luggage that was not too heavy to carry. Between the outward trip, what free time she’d had in Mexico City– which, admittedly, wasn’t much– and the portion of the return journey already past, she thought she might have read every page with her four times over. There was a limit to the enjoyment one could take from Lyell’s _Principles of Geology_ , no matter how glad she’d been to finally acquire her own copy.

Hannibal had made the same discovery, or at least he speedily closed the volume of Italian poetry he’d been reading when she approached him with a deck of cards and an offer to play.

“Not picquet,” he said in a tone of exaggerated horror, though he grinned up at her where she stood beside his chair. “I think I’d rather break my other leg than play even one more game of picquet.”

“How do you feel about whist?”

“Much warmer, thank you. Will Benjamin play too, then?”

“No, he discovered over breakfast that another one of the passengers is also a doctor. I think he’s lost to us for at least the next few hours.” She handed the cards to Hannibal and stepped away to pull an empty chair closer; Hannibal made a move as though to help, but she waved him back down. “If he hasn’t reappeared by this afternoon, I suppose I’ll go and remind him of the duties of friendship. Until then we can play German style.”

They played for pennies. Rose supposed that both she and Hannibal could now afford to gamble much larger sums, but it was old habit. So was letting Hannibal deal; he could shuffle so much more neatly and quickly than she could, his clever fingers riffling then sorting the cards without his sparing a single glance downward to direct them. 

The sun came bright over the water, sparkling off the thousand waves that seemed tiny from her own position high on the deck, and she had to shade her eyes in order to even look out across them. Despite the intensity of the light, a cool wind kept away the heat, turning the tops of the waves to white and tugging at her hair; when she turned back to accept her cards from Hannibal, she noticed his cheeks and nose had been touched with pink. For a moment, she studied the color the wind had brought out, how it gave his face a new vividness, until he tilted his head in silent inquiry and she smiled, looking down at her cards to arrange them by suit.

She had been surprised when Hannibal had announced he was going to Mexico with Consuela. She’d known she would miss him, but felt she had no right to insist he stay; hadn’t she herself left family and friends for the sake of a school in New York, and then New Orleans? Hannibal had given her his books and a few other odds and ends he didn’t care to pack, made a firm promise to write, and treated the whole matter as an impulse, as though his departure was a little thing. She had matched his light tone until the last moment, when she and Benjamin had gone down to the docks to wish him and Consuela farewell. 

Most of the passengers had already boarded, and he’d already made his goodbyes to Ben, when he turned to her for the last time. “ _Fare thee well; The elements be kind to thee, and make / They spirits all of comfort!_ ” He had taken her hand, but only the fingertips, a soft touch that she could barely feel through her gloves, and added, “Be happy, Rose.”

Acting on a suddenly felt emotion, she embraced him; he felt smaller, somehow, than she had expected, but more solid. His cheek was rough against hers, and his startled laugh was close by her ear. He caught at her shoulders briefly before she pulled back, his grip loose and quickly gone again. His smile stayed, though, his eyes bright, the lines at their corners deep.

“You as well,” she’d said.

His smile had died back. “Oh, you needn’t worry. I’ve never yet resisted even the smallest of temptations.” Then he’d stepped back and walked onto the ship, disappearing into a crowd of sailors and other passengers on board. 

She and Benjamin had stood and watched while ropes were untied and shouts rang out and a great deal of nautical business was conducted, all of which eventually resulted in the ship swinging out into the current of the river. Benjamin had sighed, still staring after it, though to Rose’s eyes the crowd on board had become an unidentifiable mass of colors and shapes. “He can always come back,” he’d said, offering the words less to her than to himself, but Rose had agreed nonetheless. 

“Diamonds,” Hannibal said now, turning over the trump card, and laid down a seven of clubs from his hand.

Rose was drawn abruptly from her thoughts, and had to look hard at her cards before laying one down that lost the trick anyway. “I’m sorry you weren’t there for our wedding,” she said. “I would have liked you to have been.”

Hannibal glanced up at her, pausing for a moment before laying a three against her Jack. “I wish I had been,” he said simply. Then he grinned. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been in such a hurry....”

She primly lifted her chin. “Are _you_ actually advising me against rash behavior?”

“I suppose I must not be, since that would clearly be ridiculous.” Rose was pleased to see his eyes sparkling with amusement. He had been subdued these last few weeks, worn and afraid, though her and Benjamin’s presence had seemed to lighten his burden somewhat. He had been entirely delighted when he’d first noticed her wedding ring, his troubles disappearing for one moment in his pure joy. She had known he would be happy for them; Hannibal was much too fond of romances not to be. She had looked forward, on the trip to Mexico, to his reaction. He was perhaps her closest friend, strange as that seemed given the differences between them. She knew he had found her solitary life a thing to be regretted, even when she herself had not wanted anything else. So it had felt natural when he had kissed her cheek in congratulations, and it wasn’t until afterwards that she thought perhaps it should have seemed strange. 

“Of course, Benjamin’s been waiting for you to marry him for years. I’m not surprised he didn’t want to give you time to change your mind.”

“As if I would have.” She drew another card and slotted it into her hand. “Besides, what was there to wait for?”

“Nothing, if Virgil’s to be believed. _Collige virgo rosas_.”

She laughed at him. “If I’m the Virgo in this allusion, does that make Ben the rose?”

Hannibal lifted his eyebrows in a parody of surprise. “What, don’t you think he’s pretty enough for it?”

“I fear it might offend his dignity.”

“That’s true. Don’t tell him I said so, then, and I will refrain from repeating the observation.”

Rose placed a hand over her heart in a schoolgirl ritual. “Your secret is safe with me.” He bowed his head in gratitude. She had always liked the way he spoke to her, frank and easy, without the flirtations and flowery poetry he used with other women. She knew neither type of conversation was entirely proper for her to listen to. But Hannibal had never tried to seduce her, despite his reputation, and Rose had been otherwise so careful when they’d first met, aware of her tenuous position as an unmarried woman. Hannibal’s friendship was the one indulgence she allowed herself, so grateful to finally be able to discuss a new novel or her thoughts on Greek translations with someone who didn’t look at her askance for being a woman who thought at all. Or, worse, treated listening to her as an indulgence she would be obliged to repay with love. She hadn’t had many friends then; she’d had her students, and there’d been neighbors and market women she knew, but in Hannibal she had found a person who shared her interests, one with whom she could speak freely. 

Or sit quietly, as they did now. They continued to play out tricks, turning over and picking up the cards in companionable silence. Hannibal occasionally turned his head to watch another passenger walk by or to look out over the water, but Rose only watched him, limiting herself to surreptitious glances. He’d shaved his mustache, and she wondered, if he was to kiss her cheek again, if she would be able to feel the difference.

She’d had a chance to return his kiss, but hadn’t taken it. When the mystery of Fernando’s death had been resolved, and there was nothing left to do but clean up the mess, she and Hannibal had shared a horse for the long ride back to Mexico City from Mictlán; he’d been quiet on the way, in a great deal of pain and barely awake. Benjamin had gone to the _hacienda_ with Don Prospero and Anastasio’s body. She had felt Hannibal swaying behind her, lacking the energy to counterbalance the horse’s movements. Worried that he would fall, she’d taken his arm and pulled it around her waist, placing it where she could hold on to him. 

She’d been surprised to feel him stiffen and pull back; she hadn’t realized he was still conscious. “I’m fine. I can hold to the saddle horn.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she’d said, tightening her grasp. His hand beneath hers was cold and clammy, though the night was mild and he had Anastasio’s coat wrapped around him. “It’s easier this way.”

She thought he would have liked to protest again, but he only sighed shakily. He gradually relaxed, his weight slowly falling against her back. His head nodded once or twice against her shoulder before coming to rest. He didn’t seem to be entirely asleep; now and then he would straighten as though to give her space, or his fingers twitched where they lay against her hip. He had been so close to her that she could feel the warmth of his breath, could smell the brandy on it; he had been so close that it would taken only the smallest turn of her head to bring her mouth to his. It would have been easy, and she’d found herself curious about how his kiss would differ from Benjamin’s, about how he would react– Hannibal, her dear friend who so loved to talk of romance without ever seeming to think of her in that light. But she hadn’t done it, not then, with his body leaning soft and heavy against hers only because he needed help. She hadn’t wanted to take advantage of his trust for a kiss it seemed likely he wouldn’t even feel, almost certainly wouldn’t remember.

Now she looked from her cards to his face, wondering how much of that night he had retained. If he’d suspected her impulse, he gave no sign of it. When they ran out of cards and paused to add their scores and reshuffle the desk, Hannibal began a story of a party Consuela had held one night, back before they’d first visited the hacienda, and how he had won a fortune from a nobleman at cards and then lost it again by betting the same man that he, Hannibal, could finish off an entire bottle of wine without pausing for breath. “And I would have won too, you know, if I hadn’t started to cough.” He shrugged and finished dealing the cards, setting the rest of the deck carefully atop the book they were using as a table. “Not that I would have had time to spend it, unless I could have bribed Santa Anna into helping me. He did seem rather buyable.”

“But then you wouldn’t have had to write to us,” Rose protested.

Hannibal looked startled. “That would have been for the best, surely.”

“Not at all. If you weren’t here, I’d have to play Patience instead, and I’m terrible at that game. I can never win, not even when I let myself cheat.” She patted his arm in a more heartfelt reassurance, and then let her hand stay there, finding herself comforted by the touch and not quite wanting to draw back. Hannibal didn’t say anything or pull away, but as the moment drew out, he gave her the second curious look of the morning, as though he couldn’t understand her actions. Rose avoided his eyes, sitting back and picking up her new hand of cards; she wasn’t entirely certain of her intentions herself. 

Hannibal had been glad for the distraction of Rose and cards; he hadn’t been inclined to sit with his own thoughts this morning. Not that he often was. But with Rose at hand it was easy to let himself chatter, devoting himself wholeheartedly to light, meaningless words that he forgot as soon as they left his mouth. Once or twice Rose stared hard at him, as if she might sweep away his persiflage and force him to speak truth, but each time she let him go instead. He could see the questions in her eyes, but as long as she didn’t speak them, he would pretend to be blind. His balance slipped slightly when she reached out to him, laying her hand on his arm in a manner more free than in his memories; had she used to touch him, and he had somehow forgotten? Perhaps his efforts at drinking himself into oblivion had been more successful than he’d realized. Or perhaps, more likely, her trust in Benjamin had relaxed her constraint. She had leaned close to him for it, and he could see the color of her eyes behind the glass of her spectacles, pale in the strong sunlight, more grey than green. Her hand was slender, curving gracefully into her wrist, and her fingers were long and square-tipped. Hannibal held a smile on his face that felt like a wooden mask, and after a beat she sat back, apparently at ease.

Eventually Benjamin arrived, which divided Rose’s attention. She borrowed his watch to check the time and suggested that they move out of the sun, which the day had carried across the deck of the ship. As she gathered their things with her typical brisk efficiency, Benjamin pulled Hannibal to his feet, handed him the crutch, and helped to steady him– unnecessary, but Hannibal saw no reason to tell him so. Ben’s broad hand firm on his back; Ben’s laughter, low and close, as he ducked his head to make a joke about clumsiness into Hannibal’s ear; and Rose glancing at them over her shoulder, her wind-blown hair forming a halo around her face. Nothing more than that, and yet it was enough to make his heart lift.

It was so easy to be glad when he was with Benjamin and Rose. Of course, that was his problem: he had made a habit of doing whatever came easiest. Leaving New Orleans for Mexico had been the one difficult task he’d recently set himself, and that had failed utterly. He had wanted to stay in New Orleans. He just hadn’t trusted himself to do so. He’d been there for four years already, letting time flow past as time tended to do, paying it no heed. He liked New Orleans. It was a city that loved wine, women, and song; a city too busy and crowded for any individual to matter much. It was the sort of place he would have dreamed of as a child, dangerous and cosmopolitan and excitingly exotic, and which he liked now simply because it gave him space, enough money to live, and a few people to talk to. 

But it had become obvious that Benjamin and Rose would marry, and so they should. Even if she’d been willing and Hannibal had had money and a home and the least vestige of a good reputation to offer, he wouldn't have been able to give them to her; the law stated that whites could not marry coloreds, as though they could make one group superior simply by declaring it so. What choice did he have but to leave? They had been generous friends, infinitely tolerant of his faults; they never would have told him to go. But Hannibal knew himself, and he was not so reliable as them. It was only a matter of time and drink until he would have ended up on Benjamin’s doorstep, wanting what he shouldn’t want and remembering what it would be better for all to have forgotten. 

Even now, after months of separation and despite his awareness that it was wrong to think of Benjamin this way when he was now Rose’s, still he sometimes dreamed of him, of his smooth warm skin and how the muscles moved beneath it, the strength and gentleness of his hands, his deep voice. Hannibal had never expected Benjamin to stay with him forever. Each time Ben had taken him into his bed, he’d been pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t the last time. Until it was, of course, and Hannibal had found himself not so dispassionate as he’d thought. At least with Rose he had known from the very first that his love was to be unrequited, having seen how she held herself apart from others, how she steeled herself against flirtation. But he had also seen her strength, the flashes of courage and compassion, that she showed when the occasion called for it. The first time she had offered him a place to sleep, it had cost her, though he hadn’t realized it until later. She must have feared the outcome of having a man– nearly a stranger, and one entirely drunk to boot– spend the night beneath her roof. But she had taken him in nonetheless, an act of deep bravery or trust. She and Benjamin deserved one another. They were people of potential, people destined for love and family and a place in the world. Their married life would have no room in it for someone like Hannibal.

They found new seats beneath a cloth the sailors had hung to provide shade. After they’d arranged themselves, Benjamin produced refreshments, acquired from a waiter he’d fallen into conversation with. There were grapes, a soft cheese, and a sweet bread with cinnamon swirled though it; slightly stale now, since it had been baked back on shore, but still appealing. 

“I gave Consuela our address, so she could write to you,” Rose said, pulling a grape from its stem. “That seemed simplest.”

“Simplest to lie?” Hannibal said. “I’m surprised at you, Athene. Or did you just want to keep my love-letters for yourself?”

Rose flicked the broken stem at him, and he put a hand to deflect it not quite quickly enough. Benjamin watched them, smiling, and said, “Why don’t you stay with us? It wouldn’t have a been a lie, then.” Hannibal didn’t answer at once; he noticed Rose watching him covertly. “It’s a large house. There’s plenty of room,” Benjamin added, once the silence had become awkward.

“Then I couldn’t possibly afford the rent.”

Benjamin frowned. “Hannibal–”

“I don’t need to beg a home from you. I’ll be fine. I assume they haven’t entirely cleared up the Swamp since I was last there.” He considered his next words, not particularly wanting to speak them, but knowing that he’d put it off for long enough. “Besides, I don’t mean to stay in New Orleans for long.”

Benjamin looked down at his hands, covering some emotion– surprise? hurt? He set aside the piece of sweet bread he’d been holding, and folded his hands on his lap. Rose only calmly asked, “Where will you go?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Somewhere to the north, I suppose, since I seem to have worn out my welcome to the south. Philadelphia’s large enough to need musicians, or New York. Not Boston. I was there once and found it not to my taste, though that might have been because it was February and unspeakably cold. It’s such Protestant city: no appreciation for the merrier things in life.” The thought of any of these places left him tired. He wanted to be back in Mexico City, to have again Consuela’s affection and a comfortable job at the Opera and no other responsibilities. He wanted– wanted so badly that he could barely consider it, lest he should fall into temptation– to take Benjamin’s offer, to live with him and Rose and be part of their family. But what a disaster that would be. He would end by being a burden on them, as he had been a burden for so much of his life.

He reached into the pocket where his bottle of laudanum waited, but changed his mind and brought his hand back out still empty. On a boat with a broken leg was a truly terrible time to attempt giving up a drug, but he could at least try to drink a bit less. He saw Benjamin notice the movement but he didn’t remark on it. He raised his gaze to Hannibal’s face, eyes rich dark brown and melancholy as a funeral. “When will you leave?” he said.

Hannibal couldn’t hold his gaze. How happy they all could be, if he were a better man. “Soonest is best, I think. I’ve no reason to delay, though perhaps I should settle on a destination first. I would benefit from a change of scene. _Libertà va cercando, ch'è sì cara / come sa chi per lei vita rifiuta_.” Again he wished for a drink, but this time he didn’t even move his hand. It was almost like an improvement.

Rose rested her head on January’s shoulder, and he stroked her hair, letting his fingers slip slowly through her curls. He was soothed by the act of touching, and continued on, his hand moving over the outer curve of her ear, the line of her chin, the side of her neck. The back of her neck was still sweaty, where her hair had trapped the heat, though the rest of her had cooled. He circled her shoulder, traced down the trail of her spine, and finally settled his hand low on her back. They lay quiet for some time. January was beginning to drift off when Rose spoke, her voice not drowsy or warm with intimacy, but with the scholarly air she had when confronted with a mathematical problem. “I’m worried about Hannibal.”

“He doesn’t seem happy,” January said. “I think his leg hurts him more than he says. And he must be missing Consuela.”

“Yes, that’s true, but it’s more than that. Why doesn’t he want to stay in New Orleans?”

January had his suspicions, but didn’t know how he could voice them to Rose. That morning Hannibal been pale in the bright light off the ocean, though he had talked lightly in his normal manner: Latin and Shakespeare, long stories that involved someone’s aunt’s maid’s lover, cheerfully cynical observations of Don Prospero and his family. But January had known him for years, and recognized the signs of unhappiness. Hannibal had spoken quickly to avoid certain topics and had been too quiet otherwise; his expression had too often been blank and withdrawn. He had held himself carefully, not relaxing as he once would have in January’s presence, and how could January blame him? January had imagined an ideal future for the three of them, closer even than they had been before, but if Hannibal would rather flee New Orleans entirely, January couldn’t stop him. He knew exactly how he had hurt Hannibal, and as much as he missed his friend, as much as he would have given to close the distance that had grown between them, he saw no way of doing so.

“I’ve never understood why he does most of the things he does.”

Rose tilted her head back to glance up at him, and January felt guilty, knowing his answer had been more obfuscation than truth, and knowing that she could tell. “If he wanted to go somewhere else, I suppose I couldn’t argue against it, though it would be hard, him leaving again so soon. But that’s not the case. He just doesn’t want to _stay_.” She paused, thoughts clearly turning over in her mind. “It’s because of us.”

“I think so,” January agreed cautiously. “Things have changed, after all. He might feel as though we don’t want him around anymore.”

Rose leaned back further, the better to converse, and propped herself up on one elbow. “That’s ridiculous.”

January shrugged. “Of course it is. But the more we protest, the more convinced he’ll become that we’re only sparing his feelings. Words alone are worth little, when that’s all you have to give.”

“Well, why should he think he’s an imposition now, and not before? What’s changed?”

 _Everything_ , January thought, and said, “Our marriage.”

“Ah,” Rose said. She considered that, brushing her hair back behind her ears. In the dark of their cabin, January could see only a few glimmers of light along her cheeks and nose, the details of her expression hidden in the shadows. Finally, Rose spoke again, her voice somewhat hesitant: “I know you’ve slept with him before.”

January was shocked, and though it seemed there were a thousand things to consider in the light of that revelation, somehow the first thing he said was, “How?”

Rose laughed, though she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, as though to spare his feelings. “Hannibal told me.”

That was even more surprising than the previous sentence, and this time January could only stare at her.

She dropped her hand, her face again composed. “Don’t hold it against him. It was before I’d met you, and he was very circumspect; your name was never even alluded to. If I hadn’t come to know you fairly well, I don’t think I would have recognized his description. It ran rather more toward poetic quotations than identifiable details.” She pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “Besides, he was very complimentary.”

January groaned and covered his eyes. “I am going to kill him.”

“I may have figured it out without his assistance, you know. He doesn’t try to hide how highly he thinks of you. But there was more to it than that.” She thought for a moment, her eyes distant. “I don’t mean to say it was obvious. Maybe it was only that I knew what I was looking for. When the two of you are together, you have always been so... aware of him. You turn to him whenever you have something to say, and you notice when he enters or leaves a room, and you’re the first to lend him a hand when he’s not well. It’s as though part of your mind is always with him.” Her eyes focused, looking at him, and January wondered what else she saw. “You do it to me, too.”

He reached up and touched her cheek, lifted his head to kiss her. She responded readily, angling her head slightly to better meet him; he felt her fingers brush over his shoulder and neck and up into his hair. She was soft and sweet-smelling in the darkness, and he felt like he could kiss her forever. But too soon she drew away and asked, amused, “Is this your way of avoiding the conversation?”

“Is it working?”

“I am still capable of thinking, even while you’re kissing me.” Her smile faded, and she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “But you’re not... you’re not still sleeping with Hannibal now, are you?”

“No,” January said, startled. “Rose, of course not. I would never betray you like that. I – that is, we – haven’t for some time now.”

She nodded calmly, but he felt some of the tension leave her. Still, her next question took a while to come. “Do you still desire him?”

His first impulse was to deny it, but he suspected that to do so would be pointless and Rose would only be hurt by the lie. He forced himself not to answer until he had thought about it honestly. January had slept with men before Hannibal – furtive schoolboy fumblings, a few late nights with other young surgeons at the Hôtel Dieu – but it was mostly a means to an end, and a rushed, somewhat unsatisfying end at that. He hadn’t missed those encounters when they’d ended. But sex with Hannibal had not been like that at all. Hannibal had seemed to enjoy what they did for its own sake, not just as a way to quench lust without a woman; he hadn’t been embarrassed by his body or January’s. January had responded to how Hannibal would linger over the act, as eager to give pleasure as to receive it, to his lack of shame. It made January want to return the favor, and so he’d begun to seek out the places that made Hannibal’s breath quicken, to find what he liked the most. The first time he’d managed to break Hannibal’s usual matter-of-fact composure, he’d felt pride and a growing desire to do it again, to make Hannibal come so hard he had to muffle his cries into January’s shoulder, his grip bruise-tight on January’s arm, his smile afterwards dazed. 

January turned and buried his face against Rose, childishly hiding himself. He felt her now, the sweet curve of her waist into her hip, her breasts pressed against his chest, the soft skin of her arm as she put it around him. She brushed her lips over his ear, the only part of his face she could reach, and he was grateful for that comfort. This, too, he wanted, almost more than he could stand. “I vowed to be faithful to you,” he said.

“Yes, I remember.” The dryness of her voice made him laugh, and things felt slightly less terrible. “Is that the reason why you ended your relationship?”

“What else could I do?”

“That seems to me to be the important question.” Rose stroked his back, an idle movement while she reflected. “My father, of course, made no such vows of fidelity to my mother. I don’t know if he loved her. As much as he loved his wife, I suppose.” 

January sat up. “Are you suggesting I set up Hannibal as my plaçée?” The absurdity of this conversation struck him, and he began to laugh. “We’ll buy him the cottage next to Minou; she’d be delighted. She could teach him how to bake a blancmange.”

Rose laughed too, but she quieted more quickly. “No, that doesn’t seem like the solution to our problem.”

“There isn’t one. Rose, I won’t give you less of me, force you to wait and wonder.... I won’t treat you so poorly.”

She took a moment to reply, then looked directly at him, her expression nearly a challenge. “I want Hannibal.”

The idea had never occurred to January. Of course he knew they were close, knew they loved one another – _but as friends_ , some part of his mind added. “Do you mean you want Hannibal as a lover?” Rose nodded. January couldn’t think of anything to say except, “Are you sure?”

“Well, I suppose I’m not. It’s not as though I have much experience at this.” She smiled briefly and raised one shoulder in a curiously uncertain gesture. “But I trust him. And I think I want him. It seems to me that I might like him very much.” She took his hand, carefully folding her fingers around his. “Are you angry?”

January was too surprised to feel much else. He had spent so long waiting and hoping for Rose to find her passion again that it still seemed nearly impossible she should feel it for him, much less for someone else. But there was a certain logic to her attraction to Hannibal: if January desired him, why shouldn't Rose? They had been companions for years, and there was a deep well of trust and affection between them. January tried picturing them kissing, Hannibal’s hands in Rose’s long hair, stroking her cheek. The image caused him no pain. He couldn’t prevent the thought that followed quickly on its heels: Hannibal and Rose both kissing _him_ , all three of them together. How would it be to have two loves, and that much more happiness?

 _Oh, Mary Ever Virgin_ , he thought, closing his eyes. _Pray for us sinners. But is it so wrong? All I want is to bring another into my family._

To Rose, he said, “I’m not angry. I suppose if I will be having an affair, it’s only right that you should too.”

Delight and relief shone on her face, and she kissed him hard. “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

January shrugged helplessly. “Who does understand love? But its presence must be better than its absence.”

“How do we tell Hannibal?” Rose retreated slightly, her voice worried. “That is, do you think he would be willing? I’ve just been assuming – what if he’s not?”

January thought of how stiffly Hannibal had held himself that morning, as if he clung to his self-control with an iron grasp for fear of what he might do without it. He had clung to Rose in very much the same way, when she had offered him her hands to hold while January had had to pull straight the break in his leg so that it could be bound properly to a splint. Hannibal hadn’t screamed or wept, though January wouldn’t have blamed him, but he had held on to Rose like a drowning man offered a branch. Even when the worst of the pain was over, he had kept her hands, seemingly finding comfort in her touch, until she’d pulled away to assist January with the splint.

But there had been better times too: Hannibal in his bed, laughing until January rolled over on top of him and kissed him. He had reached up to hold January in place, spreading his legs to let him settle between them. He had tasted of champagne and coffee, January remembered. He remembered too, later that same night, the small sounds Hannibal had made when January pressed into him, the arch of his back with the knobs of his spine standing out, the muscles of his thigh straining under January’s hand.

“I think Hannibal is very far from unwilling,” said January.

After dinner the next night, Hannibal made his way back up to the deck; his leg made it hard to fall asleep. He walked very slowly with the crutch, but the deck was mostly deserted at this hour, except for some sailors doing– he supposed– necessary sailor things. It might be nice to be part of a crew, each person with their own place but all working together to make the ship sail. He was a little old to learn to tie knots, though. And the salt air wasn’t good for his violin’s strings. He made his way back and forth several times, hoping to find himself tired enough that even a broken leg couldn’t keep him awake. A few lanterns were lit along the space cleared for passengers to walk, providing just enough light to make the shadows darker. 

His leg began to ache, so he moved to the railing and leaned against it, easing his weight off of the break. Unfortunately, he felt no closer to sleep. He was still standing there, considering another round of the ship, when someone came up beside him. It was Rose. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“And now that you’ve found me, what do you propose to do?”

She smiled at him, the golden light from the lantern flashing off her spectacles and resting more gently on the curve of her cheek, before she turned to face the water like him, slipping her arm into his. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He shifted slightly, so that she was free to pull away again, but she seemed content to stay, her shoulder resting against his, her hand on his wrist. Her fingers sketched out small patterns, as though she were feeling his skin or the bones and pulse beneath, but more likely it was only an unconscious tic while she thought of something else. She was a tall woman, his height, and he found the warmth and weight of her against his side appealing. He was glad she could be at ease with him; when he had first met her, she had been wary, turning to stone at any touch she couldn’t avoid. Benjamin was good for her. She had always been strong, but the openness she had shown these last few weeks was new.

“You aren’t tired?” she asked.

“At this hour? Athene, you are vastly overestimating my capacity for sleep. I have hours yet to fill. _I linger yet with Nature, for the night / Hath been to me a more familiar face / Than that of man._ ”

“Is it your leg?”

“I admit to having found that a broken leg is not as conducive to a good night’s sleep as one would think.” He grinned at her. “It’s so hard to find a comfortable position.”

The glance she gave him was warm and amused. “Perhaps you should find someone to help you with that.”

“Believe me, I would have, were it not that this ship has an unreasonable dearth of unmarried women.”

“What about the married ones?”

“Alas,” he said, patting her hand, “they all seem to be as faithful and chaste as you yourself.”

Rose laughed, perhaps a little harder than the joke warranted, but he didn’t mind. He was glad she would talk to him like this. He liked the way she had of noticing other people’s absurdities, and of holding herself at just enough of a distance that they were amusing rather than dismaying. She could be quick in conversation, though she often hid her brilliance and self-assurance and cool sarcasm beneath an air of propriety. 

She tilted her head, looking at him consideringly. “This traveling has been difficult on you, hasn’t it?”

He shrugged. “What other choice do I have? I’ll survive.” 

“Yes.” She sighed and turned back to the ocean. The lanterns had spoiled his night vision, so all he could see was blackness, with no dividing line between sea and sky. Even the stars seemed faint, more gray than white. “Hannibal,” Rose said after a time, breaking the silence. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything you ask. Well, anything within my abilities.”

“Oh, this is something you can do. If you’re willing.” She pulled her arm away so that they were no longer touching and turned to face him. He couldn’t quite make out her eyes, between the darkness and the glare of the lanterns, but her expression was calm. “When we get back to New Orleans, would you come and stay with us? It needn’t be permanent, but I would feel better if you were to stay with us at least until you’d healed. It would be so much less difficult that way.” One corner of her mouth turned up. “If you don’t, I’ll be forced to worry about you, and Benjamin hates to go down to the Swamp.”

Hannibal hesitated. It seemed cowardly to accept when he had made such a point of refusing the same offer the previous day, but he couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse not to. Rose’s logic was, as always, air-tight. She observed his wavering resolve, and added in a persuasive voice, “Please come, for my sake. I would be grateful.”

He bowed his head. “It would be rude of me to refuse such a request. Particularly when it’s to my own benefit to accept.” He would be able to leave as soon as he needed to, after all. He wouldn’t stay long enough to ruin anything.

She smiled, then quickly leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said, and walked off before he could react. He turned to watch her go; in the dim light, he almost thought he’d seen her blush.

If he was inclined to regret having succumbed to temptation, Rose and Benjamin gave him no opportunity to take back his agreement. Separately and together, they made such a point of anticipating his visit that he began to suspect them of conspiracy, though he couldn’t imagine what the goal was. It was pleasant, though, to make plans to see neighbors and old friends, to reminisce about the sights and tastes of New Orleans, to listen to Rose and Benjamin discuss how they wanted to furnish their new house. Much as he knew it could only be temporary, he looked forward to sharing their home. He would be happy there, safe and among friends. Even that was more than he could have asked for, and he was occasionally certain that it would be best for him to leave before he could grow accustomed to such a life. But there was nowhere to go, trapped on a boat as they were, and as he spent more time in the company of Benjamin and Rose the urgency of departure left him, and he pushed off thoughts of other cities for later. 

The trip passed quickly with such things to fill the time. He taught Rose a new card game and they discussed Greeks other than Helen of Troy; Benjamin, unable to find a single instrument to borrow on the whole ship, sat beside him to listen when he would play, and sometimes softly sang. Hannibal persuaded the ship’s cook to lend them his copy of _Twelfth Night_ , and the three of them staged a reading one night in the Januarys‘ cabin; Hannibal claimed the role of Viola for himself, with Benjamin as Orsino and Rose as a somewhat demure Olivia. Partway through they abandoned the text, inventing an entirely new resolution wherein Olivia succeeded in winning Viola’s hand in marriage by promising to wed Orsino as well (Sebastian, they all agreed, could be dispensed with as too obviously a _deus ex machina_ ), and they laughed themselves nearly to tears.

The last day before they arrived in New Orleans, Rose struck up an acquaintance with the captain, who agreed to show her how to read navigation maps. Benjamin and Hannibal passed on the opportunity, taking to the deck for fresh air instead. “I’ll be glad to be back,” Benjamin said. “Of course, at this point, I’d be glad to be anywhere that’s not on this ship.”

“Me as well. I missed New Orleans more than I expected to. I didn’t think I’d ever have a reason to come back, but _fata obstant_.” 

Benjamin frowned. “So don’t hurry away again.”

“Would you miss me, _amicus meus_?” Hannibal grinned, to turn the question to a joke, but Benjamin answered sincerely anyway.

“Of course I would. Do you think I came to Mexico for Don Prospero’s company?”

“I thought you came because, as a good man, you would have considered it dishonorable to ignore a cry for help. Not that I’m not grateful, of course.” He was more than grateful; he was filled with a love for Benjamin and Rose that threatened to overwhelm him and spill out in uncontrollable, irreversible ways. They had risked their lives and wasted their money for his sake, and he would never forget it. They had defended him, borne him back to safety, believed in his innocence against all evidence. He only wished he deserved such friends.

“Stay until you’ve repaid the debt, then.” Benjamin’s voice was serious and he leaned in forward in his seat, putting a hand on Hannibal’s knee to give additional weight to his argument. Hannibal swallowed, close enough to see the lighter flecks in Benjamin’s brown eyes, to smell the clean soap and starch on him over the ocean salt. It occurred to him that he could close the distance between them and kiss Ben, hold him, try to persuade him to have one last tryst. But that wouldn’t be enough, and Hannibal refused to be the worm that sickened the flower of his marriage. 

He looked away. “I think extending my stay is more likely to deepen my debt to you.”

After what seemed like long enough for Benjamin to surely read his every thought, Ben withdrew his hand and sat back. “The only thing I want from you is to be my friend.”

“You should acquire more extravagant tastes, then. Besides, you have plenty of friends. You hardly need one more.”

“What if I need a white man to testify for me?”

Hannibal glanced at him, not certain how serious he was. “God pray you manage to stay out of court. But if you should get involved in another misadventure, Shaw would testify for you. Or, if not him, Mayerling, or even Davis.”

Benjamin conceded the point with a tilt of his head, but crossed his arms. “And what if I need a white man to lie for me?”

Hannibal laughed shortly. “Why, _amicus meus_ , are you planning some sort of criminal escapade?”

“You never know where the fates will lead. Piano music might suddenly fall out of fashion.”

“I rather doubt it.” Hannibal shrugged. “I give you my word: if you descend to robbing banks, I’ll return from wherever I am, and swear under oath to your upright character and whatever alibi you’ve dreamed up.”

Benjamin stuck out his hand, and Hannibal shook it to seal the promise. “I’m going to hold you to that. Don’t go so far I can’t find you.” Hannibal nodded, perplexed but cheered. 

Their arrival in New Orleans was chaotic, loud, and disorganized, much like every other disembarkation Hannibal had ever experienced. He followed Rose and Benjamin to their new home in the French Quarter, an old Spanish-style house set slightly off from the street. They set about reopening the doors and windows, letting the stale air of their weeks away be blown out. It had been agreed that Hannibal would stay in Benjamin’s study, while Benjamin slept with Rose, so that he shouldn’t have to climb the stairs to the other rooms in the attic on a broken leg. Accordingly, that night he was sitting on a bed he recognized from nights spent in the room in Livia Levesque’s garçonnière, though he’d never before slept on it alone; he was rather glad to be disturbed from his thoughts by a knock on the door. 

Rose entered at his invitation, dressed only in a night shift and robe, her hair braided back for sleep. There was nothing indecent in her appearance, but she looked soft and open, the shape of her legs more obvious without petticoats, and he knew if he were to touch her, he would be able to feel the warmth of her body through the thin cloth. She still wore her spectacles, one point of familiarity. 

“Is something wrong?” Hannibal asked.

“No, not at all,” she said. She readjusted the collar of her robe. “Are you comfortable here? Do you need anything?”

“I’ll be fine, thank you.”

She paused to take a breath, not meeting his eyes. “We were preparing for bed, and I thought of you in here, so close and yet... still so very far away. It needn’t to be so, you know. If you would like, you could come to my room.”

“Why?”

To his surprise, she laughed outright, her teeth showing for a moment. She cocked her head at him, eyes bright. “I was under the impression that you were experienced at this sort of thing.”

For a moment he wanted to kiss her so strongly that he nearly did; there was a vein of hidden happiness in her manner that he badly wanted to share. “I am, unfortunately. Which is all the more reason you shouldn’t ask such things of me; I might have taken you up on it.”

“And why shouldn’t you? I want you to; Ben wants you to.” She stepped forward and took his hands in hers, expression intent and sympathetic. “Hannibal, tell me: do you want us?”

He didn’t want to lie to her, but the truth was unbearable; his heart pounded in his chest. “You are my friends,” he said at last, knowing the words were inadequate and hearing the distress in his own voice.

Rose seemed to accept that as answer enough, her smile firming. “Then come with me.” She drew him to his feet, and he let her take his arm and guide him to her bedroom. 

Benjamin was sitting on the bed when they entered, half-dressed in only shirtsleeves and trousers. The shirt was new, and clearly had been tailored for him rather than bought secondhand; the material was so fine that it revealed every line of his broad shoulders, the contour of the muscles in his arms. The white of the linen was stark against his dark skin.

Hannibal looked away, but shifting his attention to Rose didn’t help. In the stronger light of their room, he could see that her robe was a forest green that brought out the warmth in her skin and eyes. It was less ostentatious than Benjamin’s clothes, but still well-made, clinging to her form with the gracefulness of silk. She had been too much in the sun lately, in Mexico and on board the ship, and it showed on her browned cheekbones and nose, her more prominent freckles. In opposition, her hair had lightened, the bronze highlights transmuted to gold. She directed him to sit on the bed, ducking her head for a moment as she did, and he noticed the soft spot of skin behind her ear, the small, delicate curls of hair on the nape of her neck. When he’d sat, she perched next to him, cornering him between her and Benjamin.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Benjamin said, putting a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of Rose?” 

“Why are you doing this?” Hannibal tried to smile, but suspected it came out rather sickly. “I mean, why now?”

Benjamin shrugged. “The beds on board the ship were much too small.”

Hannibal was startled into a laugh, and Benjamin’s hand relaxed. “I’ve missed you,” Benjamin said, his voice earnest. “I want what we had before.”

“Well, not exactly,” Rose murmured.

“No.” He smiled at her. “Rose refuses to be left out this time. It would be with both of us, Hannibal, if you say yes.” He held out his hand, palm up, and waited. Hannibal clasped it before he could rescind the offer, a joy growing inside his chest. 

Rose traced softly down his cheek, then drew his face towards her; he was very conscious of the softness of her skin and of how his own flesh must feel, of the air in his throat and Benjamin’s strong hand around his. She kissed his other cheek, the warm soft touch of her mouth a contrast to her cool firm fingers. It was a chaste kiss, as kisses went. He wanted to kiss the freckles sprinkled faint across her cheekbones, the fingers still held to his face, and most of all her lips. 

“ _A thousand kisses buys my heart from me_ ,” he heard himself say, the first thing that entered his mind.

She raised her eyebrows, and he had the sense that she was laughing at him, though the only outward sign was where her mouth tucked in at one corner. “Indeed? That seems a low price.”

“You are going about haggling in entirely the wrong manner, Athene.”

She continued to look at him, eyes still sparkling with the last of the laughter. Her hand dropped from his face to his neck and curved around behind it, a point of steady balance, and then she closed the distance between them and kissed him again, sure and on the mouth.

Rose kept her grip loose so that Hannibal was free to pull away, but though his mouth was gentle on hers, almost tentative, he leaned in, turning his body to face her. After a moment, he put his arm around her shoulders, still kissing her, and she felt her heart start to beat a little faster, her face flush with the newness and excitement of it. Hannibal’s other hand fumbled against the skirt of her robe before finding her knee and clasping it, then sliding very slightly up her thigh.

Rose had been right; she enjoyed his kiss. Laughter bubbled up inside her, a sense of the ridiculous at finding herself embracing Hannibal, whom she had thought of so chastely for so long. But to laugh she would have to break the kiss, and she was unwilling to do so; now that she was kissing him, she wanted to keep on doing so. She switched to light kisses, exploring kisses; she held his face still between her hands to kiss his cheek, the corner of his eyes, his neck, until he pulled free and took her mouth again. She parted her lips, wanting to taste him, and felt how Hannibal’s fingers tightened in response, digging into her shoulder and thigh. She pressed into him, deepening the kiss, when he abruptly pulled back and turned his head.

Benjamin had kissed his shoulder, and as Rose watched, he put an arm around Hannibal’s waist, enfolding him tightly from behind. He pressed his face to Hannibal’s hair and breathed deeply. Hannibal laughed and said his name, his voice somewhat shaky, and twisted in Benjamin’s hold to kiss him hard, one arm going around Benjamin’s neck. They kissed fiercely, like they feared being pulled apart, clinging to one another. 

Rose leaned back, glad they could come together so easily. She had sensed the distance between them in Mexico, each grieving for the other, and had been sorry for it, knowing how close they had been. She didn’t feel excluded by their passion, but rather welcomed a moment to herself, to be able to watch instead of needing to do. 

Hannibal tried to push back from Benjamin, who held more fixedly to him, catching Hannibal by the back of the head and pressing another kiss to his mouth, then another, and then a third, even as Hannibal laughingly objected. “Let me breathe, _amicus meus_ , just for a moment–”

Rose reached across him and shoved at Benjamin’s shoulder. “Let him go, dear. He won’t disappear if you let him out of your hands.”

Benjamin grinned at her, somewhat embarrassed. “Are you certain about that? I’d rather not be obliged to follow him to another country again.” 

Hannibal put his palms up in surrender. “You’ve made your point. I am sufficiently rebuked.”

“He’ll stay now,” Rose said confidently. She knelt and leaned across Hannibal to kiss Benjamin. His lips were slick; wet, she realized, from Hannibal’s kiss. Goosebumps traced down her skin and, as if following them, Hannibal’s hand moved across her waist. She balanced her weight against Benjamin’s shoulder as she drew out the kiss. She of course had grown to know his kisses– how he tasted and moved, his love and passion– but coming to him with her lips still sensitive from Hannibal’s kiss made it seem new and wicked. Hannibal had continued to touch her, long strokes over her back and sides, which woke her nerves and deepened her awareness of her body and all its parts. He toyed with the sash at the waist of her robe, twisting and tugging it before slipping forward to reach for the knot that held it closed. He stopped there, fingers brushing against her belly. “May I?” he asked.

She hesitated, feeling herself on the edge of a precipice, as though this was the point of no return. Hannibal retreated slightly when she didn’t answer, but she caught his hand, holding firmly it in place. She did want him to touch her, to be with him; she drew in a deep breath and relaxed her grasp. “Yes, you may.”

He quickly untied the sash and slid the robe from her shoulders. “Ah,” he said, his voice low and admiring, “you have freckles here, too.” He put his lips to the outermost edge of her shoulder and began to work his way in, dropping little kisses on each freckle. Rose dropped her head to Benjamin’s shoulder, closing her mouth to prevent a sound from escaping. 

“It’s not the only place she does,” Benjamin said, drawing the robe further down her arms.

“Hush.” She swallowed; there was a tension all through her body, as though she needed to stretch her muscles, but she knew it was a more deep-seated craving than that. “Or I’ll tell him all about your least handsome features.”

“But I already know what Ben looks like,” Hannibal said, and then froze, so obviously regretting his words than Rose had to laugh, though she tried to do so kindly.

She found his hand and squeezed it. “I already knew.”

Hannibal sighed, and pulled his hand away to hide his eyes, but she could see his shoulders ease back down. “I rather thought you did.”

“No, I seem to be the only one kept ignorant,” Benjamin said, mock-angry.

Rose stood up from the bed and reseated herself on Benjamin’s lap, kissing his cheek as his arms went around her waist to hold her in place. She waved a hand at Hannibal. “So, make it up to me. Undress, I’ll see you, and we’ll all be even.”

He grinned. “If only all my problems could be solved so pleasantly.” He began to obey her direction, and Rose turned back to Benjamin, who assisted her in pulling off the robe, which he tossed to the foot of the bed. Her night shift was made of linen, woven so finely that it sat on her light as a mist, and nearly as sheer. Seated on his knee, she was taller than Benjamin, which gave their kisses a different feel, one she rather liked. As did he, if the ways his hands moved over her hips and up to her breasts was any indication. Benjamin leaned forward to kiss the upper curve of her chest, pulling the night shift tight against her so that her nipples were just visible as dark shadows beneath the cloth. She returned the favor by tugging his shirt off, revealing his broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist, the thick muscles of his arms and chest. He had a small patch of hair on his chest, darker even than his skin, and she ran her fingers through it, liking how it scratched against her palm. 

She rocked closer to him, moving his thigh between her legs, and he set his hands to her sides; they were wide enough that his thumbs could circle the undersides of her breasts while his palms framed her ribs. He lifted one breast and kissed it through the night shift; she could feel the heat of his mouth, but craved it even closer. He licked at her, and his tongue dragged the texture of the fabric across her nipple. She arched her back, escaping the overwhelming sensation, but the movement only pressed her pelvis harder against him. He moved one arm behind her to support her so she wouldn’t fall.

She looked toward Hannibal; he had bent over to remove his second boot, wearing only his trousers still. His body was such a contrast to Benjamin’s; not just in color, though of course he was pale as milk, his torso and arms even whiter than his hands and face, which had been touched by the Mexican sun. And too she had known he was thin, but there was a stark reality to actually seeing him, lean and sharp-boned as an alley-cat, the knobbiness of his elbows and ankles giving him an oddly young look, as though he was still in his adolescence. He wasn’t unattractive, though; she liked the delicacy of his long limbs, the indentations that ran on the inside of his hipbones, narrowing to a V, the point of which was still hidden beneath his trousers. He was cool, in form and color and manner, compared to Benjamin’s warmth, and Rose found both pleasing. 

She stood to finish undressing herself; Benjamin held to her until she backed out of reach of his arms, and only then reluctantly released her with a self-conscious expression. She smiled at him in acknowledgement as she raised the shift over her head.

Benjamin turned to Hannibal and laid a hand on his thigh to catch his attention, kissing him when he looked up. He moved closer to return the kiss, stroking Benjamin’s shoulders and arms and sides, obviously savoring the feel of his body, his more solid build. Benjamin’s kisses were less frantic than earlier, each one slow and appreciative; he paused frequently to pull back and look at Hannibal, as though he couldn’t decide what he wanted more, to have his mouth on him or his eyes. Hannibal’s expression was less emotional, almost wry, but his eyes were bright and he kept touching Benjamin in small, careful ways, fingertips brushing his chest, his cheek, his lower lip.

Rose dropped her shift to the floor and returned to the side of the bed, taking Benjamin’s offered hand. Hannibal glanced at her and then stared, letting his breath out in a long sigh of appreciation. She was unsure of how to respond; she had seen him treat Minou and Livia and other women in a similar worshipful manner, but never before had he done so to her. She felt disconcerted, as though he had become a stranger. Then he lifted his eyes to her face, grinned, and said, “Athene– though perhaps I should not have named you after a virgin goddess.”

“Who, then? Aphrodite?” Rose said.

Benjamin rubbed his thumb across her knuckles and murmured, “She was Athena’s sister.”

“Half-sister,” Rose said skeptically. “Certainly not her twin.”

Hannibal ignored their digression. “Who indeed? Who is there clever enough, fearless enough, and, well, owl-eyed enough to deserve the honor of your appellation?”

“You could simply call me Rose.”

“Sometimes I suspect you of suffering from a lack of poetry.”

Rose bent to kiss him, and he opened quickly to her, reaching for her thighs. She straightened up. “No, you don’t.” 

“No,” he echoed softly, “I don’t.” He drew his hands slowly up her flanks, the merest featherweight against her skin. She reacted more than she would have to a firmer touch, particularly when he started back down, brushing over her stomach, her hips, the front of her thighs. It was like storm air moving over her, the fine hair on her skin standing on end, tingling with the promise of rain. She could feel her pulse beat between her legs.

Hannibal shifted to the inside of her thighs, each fingertip a bright shock against that sensitive skin. He avoided the place where she most wanted his hands, tracing along the crease of her hips instead. He leaned forward to kiss her navel, and his fingers spread in half-circles over the lowest part of her belly, his thumbs sweeping over the edge of the curls between her thighs. Her breath hitched; such a teasing touch was a torment, and she had to catch at his shoulders to keep her balance. He did it again, and this time it was less like the crackle of electricity, but still made her ache for more.

“May I?” he asked, and at her nod, touched her where she had been waiting for him. She felt his fingers slip in the moisture on her skin, but he didn’t press in, only trailed a line along the outside of her folds. He repeated the movement again and again, until she propped one knee on the edge of the bed and lifted her hips. Finally he brought his fingers to her clit, circling the most tender spot. Rose had to close her eyes, and so she didn’t know exactly when Benjamin stood, only when his arm wrapped around her and took some of her weight. He had undressed as well, and his erection pressed against her back, hot and hard. She rubbed against him, and he groaned quietly.

Hannibal spread open her folds and pressed his mouth there, his tongue moving over her, licking into her. Her legs wobbled and she clutched at Benjamin’s arm; he tightened his grip, kissing her hair, her neck, the side of her face. He ground his hips against her, panting low and fast in her ear. Hannibal explored her skillfully; wide flat sweeps of his tongue alternated with the firmer pressure of just the tip, right over her clit. He pressed his face harder against her for deeper access, lapping and sucking at her so eagerly she could hear the wet sounds. Tremors began to move through her, and she threw her head back against Benjamin’s shoulder, arching her throat and opening her mouth to gasp for air. Benjamin cupped her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers, his own movements unsteady with impending climax.

Her release, when it arrived, was sudden and sharp, shaking her like a leaf in the wind. Hannibal would have persisted, but she pushed him away, too sensitive for more. Benjamin helped her lie on the bed, which she was grateful for, since she felt entirely incapable of anything more difficult than trying to catch her breath. He kissed her sweetly, though he must have been desperate for his own release. Hannibal twisted back to continue touching her, long strokes along her arms, inexpressibly soothing. Benjamin shifted to kneel above him; Hannibal leant up to kiss him, his throat making a long line as he stretched up toward Benjamin. He did something with his hands that Rose couldn’t see, and Benjamin made a short, cut-off sound low in his throat. He met her gaze for a moment, love and a sweet joy obvious in his expression, and then he closed his eyes.

Hannibal put an arm around his neck to draw him close, his other hand still working, and Benjamin pressed his face to Hannibal’s temple. He buried his fingers in Hannibal’s hair, tugging some of it loose from his queue, his breath the loudest sound in the room. Rose could see the strain in his face, the moment when pleasure looks so much like pain, and she sat up, reaching for him; he broke just before she touched him. He cried out, his body jerking against Hannibal. She rubbed his shoulder and he embraced her, pulling her hard against him– or against Hannibal, who was caught between them. Benjamin’s skin was hot where she touched it, with streaks of sweat at the center of his chest and down his spine. Hannibal leaned back against her, grinning somewhat smugly.

Benjamin sighed, long and content. “Oh. That was... very good.”

Rose laughed, and put her hand under his chin to tip his face up into a kiss. Hannibal shifted restlessly against her, and Benjamin turned to him, kissing him hard enough to press him against Rose. She put her arms around Hannibal’s waist as he arched his back, muscles tense.

She moved back across the bed, making more room for the two men. Hannibal didn’t notice until Benjamin pushed him down, where he immediately rolled to his other side to face Rose. She lifted a hand to hold him, but he caught it and kissed her wrist. “My most dear Rose,” he said. “My dearest friends. How can I tell you how grateful I am?” 

“This isn’t solely for your benefit,” Benjamin said, undoing the buttons of Hannibal’s trousers. “I have managed to find some measure of enjoyment for myself.” He slid the flat of his palm down the front of the trousers, where Hannibal’s erection pressed against the cloth. Hannibal sighed and laid his own hand over Benjamin’s, squeezing lightly. 

“I want you,” Rose said, moving closer. Hannibal’s skin was smooth and warm and somehow deeply thrilling against her own, and she took pleasure in touching as much of it as she could. “I didn’t, before. I had thought that I simply didn’t– that perhaps it wasn’t for me.” She paused, searching for the right words. “But now I feel open. There are possibilities for me that I never expected.” She smiled at him, teasing. “Would you deny me the chance to explore them?”

“ _O brave new world! / That has such people in it!_ ” He obviously meant the quote in jest, but he was looking at her with unreserved tenderness, his eyes black as ink in the dark room; he ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it forward over her shoulder to his lips. She embraced him, kissing him again, enjoying how keenly he responded to her, more methodical and less forthright than Benjamin. She tasted herself on him, like salt and earth, and held him tighter.

Benjamin dragged off Hannibal’s trousers, kicking them to the foot of the bed. Hannibal gasped into Rose’s mouth, suddenly rigid.

She lifted her head. “Your leg–”

“I’m fine,” He interrupted. “Don’t stop now, please.” He clutched her waist, then smoothed his hands up to her breasts, massaging them; he buried his face in her neck, kissing his way down to her collarbones. She saw Benjamin doing nearly the same, his mouth against Hannibal’s shoulder, his hands stroking Hannibal’s chest and stomach. Watching him and feeling Hannibal, she had a dizzying sense of being doubled. Hannibal’s kisses turned openmouthed, hot air panted against her skin.

Benjamin moved his attention to Hannibal’s cock, taking it in a loose grip and beginning to pump it unhurriedly. Hannibal tried to turn toward him, but Benjamin held him in place, so all he could do was twist his face back against Benjamin’s shoulder. “Ben,” he said, “Ben, God, faster–”

Rose could see that Benjamin didn’t obey, his stroking continuing at exactly the same pace, though he bent to kiss Hannibal. She reached out brush Hannibal’s hair from his face, then let her fingers skim down across his torso, his muscles fluttering beneath her touch, and then, with just a slight hesitation, added her hand to Benjamin’s. Hannibal made a soft, desperate sound, hips pushing up into their hold, and let his head fall down against the bed. Benjamin smiled at her across him.

Hannibal’s cock felt like soft skin over hard muscle, its color flushed and dark. She wanted to please him, to hear him cry out again, wanted to learn his body as she had begun to do with Benjamin’s. When he peaked, spilling over her and Benjamin’s fingers, she felt almost as if she had as well; the air caught in her throat and her body shivered.

Hannibal kissed them both, turning from one to other as though he couldn’t choose. “I can’t tell you how happy I am,” he said, finally settling to lie still. Rose curled close to him, Benjamin draping an arm across Hannibal’s side to lie his hand on her hip.

“You don’t need to,” she said.

January woke in the faint light of dawn, roused by Rose slipping out from under the sheet and letting in a draft of night-cool air. Hannibal was still deeply asleep, his back pressed against January’s chest, his head pillowed on one bent arm.

Rose, catching sight of his open eyes, smiled and whispered, “Go back to sleep. It’s early still.” The three of them had stayed awake for some time, speaking as casually in the shared bed as they might have the previous year over coffee in the marketplace or jambalaya on the porch of Rose’s room. The only difference lay in his ability to touch his friends now; he idly stroked Rose’s arm as he spoke, or rested his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder while listening. He found a sense of deep contentment in the easy closeness of their bodies. He and Rose had divided the task of recounting New Orleans gossip, their involvement in a murder investigation over the summer, and their plans to reopen Rose’s school. Hannibal told stories of his life with Consuela, the Opera, and Mexico City before he’d first been invited to her family’s hacienda. Most of what they discussed was inconsequential, though if Rose’s voice was halting and rough when she spoke of her friend Artois, or Hannibal’s too bright for some of his memories of Consuela, they passed over it easily enough.

January was torn, wanting to get up and help Rose with her usual tasks while the morning was still and quiet, but also tempted by the warmth of the bed, the soporific rhythm of Hannibal’s breathing. Not a terrible fate, he thought, to be faced with a choice where either option would make him happy.

He moved to sit up, and Hannibal stirred beside him, blinking his eyes muzzily. He glanced from January to Rose, his puzzlement fading as he woke, and changing to a satisfied expression. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“We can’t all sleep until noon,” Rose said.

He held out a hand to her. “You’ve just returned to town. You can’t possibly have a schedule yet. Take opportunities to be idle when they present themselves.”

She rolled her eyes, but allowed him to pull her back into the bed, settling complacently against him. January leaned back as well, resting on his elbows. “I’m not tired, though,” Rose said, reversing their handhold to intertwine her fingers with Hannibal’s. “You’ll have to give me something to do.”

“Oh, I can think of a few things,” said January, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> The incredibly gorgeous art is by evian-fork, and you can see more of it [here](http://evian-fork.livejournal.com/145810.html). Go and give her feedback!
> 
> I am SO GRATEFUL to egelantier and somebraveapollo, lovely and magnificent betas. 
> 
> Hannibal (and others) citations:  
>  _Ine_  
>  Latin for "enter, come in"
> 
>  _Can honour set to a leg? no: or_  
>  _an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no._  
>  _Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is_  
>  _honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what_  
>  _is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it?_  
>  _he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no._  
>  _Doth he hear it? no. 'Tis insensible, then. Yea,_  
>  _to the dead. But will it not live with the living?_  
>  _no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore_  
>  _I'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: and so_  
>  _ends my catechism._  
>  -Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 1, Act V, scene 1. The character Falstaff gives this speech.
> 
> Whist is a four-person card game sort of like a cross between Bridge and War. German Whist is the same thing for two. 
> 
> _Fare thee well;_  
>  _The elements be kind to thee, and make_  
>  _Thy spirits all of comfort!_  
>  -Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, Act III, scene 2.
> 
>  _Collige virgo rosas_  
>  Pick, girl, the roses.  
> -De rosis nascentibus (also titled Idyllium de rosis), attributed to either Ausonius or Virgil.
> 
>  _Libertà va cercando, ch'è sì cara, come sa chi per lei vita rifiuta._  
>  He goes in search of freedom, and how dear that is, the man who gives up life for it well knows.  
> -Dante, Purgatorio. Canto I, lines 71-72.
> 
>  _The stars are forth, the moon above the tops_  
>  _Of the snow-shining mountains—Beautiful!_  
>  _I linger yet with Nature, for the night_  
>  _Hath been to me a more familiar face_  
>  _Than that of man; and in her starry shade_  
>  _Of dim and solitary loveliness_  
>  _I learn'd the language of another world._  
>  -Byron, Manfred, Act III, scene 4.
> 
>  _Twelfth Night_ would totally be more rational if it ended in a threesome. Long-lost twins are a cop-out.
> 
>  _Fata obstant_  
>  The Fates willed otherwise.  
> -Latin saying
> 
>   _To sell myself I can be well contented,_  
>  _So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;_  
>  _Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips_  
>  _Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips._  
>  _A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;_  
>  _And pay them at thy leisure, one by one._  
>  _What is ten hundred touches unto thee?_  
>  _Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?_  
>  _Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,_  
>  _Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?_  
>  -Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis
> 
>   _O, wonder!_  
>  _How many goodly creatures are there here!_  
>  _How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,_  
>  _That has such people in't!_  
>  -Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act V, Scene 1
> 
>  _Again, there are others, I am told, who, with even less of human feeling, maintain (and I briefly touched on this point just now) that friendships are to be sought for defence and help, not on account of good-will and affection; therefore, that those least endowed with firmness of character and strength of body have the greatest longing for friendship. Thus it is that women seek the support of friendship more than men do, the poor more than the rich, the unfortunate more than those who seem happy. What noble philosophy! You might just as well take the sun out of the sky as friendship from life, for the immortal gods have given us nothing better or more delightful._  
>  -Cicero, De Amicitia, 13.46


End file.
